


small comfort

by sunaga



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Elementary ficathon, Female Character of Color, Ficathon, Friendship, Gen, Intimacy, Male-Female Friendship, Medical Procedures, POV Character of Color, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaga/pseuds/sunaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He places his fingertips between the flesh of her ribs.  "Lots of ways to die here.  A scalpel, say."</p><p>Of why Joan walked away from being a surgeon and the place called home that we return to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	small comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Originally [posted](http://sapphisms.livejournal.com/2600.html?thread=13864#t13864) on the Elementary ficathon for the prompt: joan/sherlock, this must be the place .
> 
> Credit where credit is due: I read a fic here that worked with a similar premise of whether Joan left the medical profession because she killed her patient. I've forgotten the title, so if you know of it, please let me know so I can credit properly.

"Here," he says. The long length of his arm bent at the elbow, his fingertips just brushing against her ribs. She doesn't need him to finish his deduction to know what he's talking about. There is only one thing it could be, and she cannot forget; her own palm returning to this place when she is alone in the cold empty spaces of morning.  
  
She looks down at his blunt nails -- rough, uneven cuticles; she wonders if he bites them -- against her bamboo-blend sweater. "Yes," she replies.  
  
He presses just slightly, pushing into the dip between ribs, as if he's wondering whether to slip a knife, a scissor, a pen there and how long it'd take to die. "Lots of ways to die here. A scalpel, say."  
  
She thinks it's unbecoming of him to be so obvious. "Unsteady hands too," she adds  
  
He doesn't bother looking at her face, he's too busy counting up her ribs. "That wasn't it; you feel guilty enough, but it's not about your _incompetence_."  
  
The house is an organized mess as it always is; no amount of cleaning she does will ever make sense in the same way this careful chaos does. Last night's takeout is still on the table, the chicken still skewered by the plastic fork. It's Sherlock's food of course; Joan covered her food, threw out her fork, and put her leftover kebob in the fridge next to the half-and-half last night.  
  
"Tell me," he presses, pulling his hand away. He gives her one of those devilish, boyish smiles and she crosses her arms. He leans forward like he's telling her a secret. "That's what friends do after all. How are you supposed to help me recover if you don't share? Building trust with me and all that."  
  
Her body vibrates in the same way it used to, the kind of energy she once harnessed for surgery now aimed at Sherlock to keep him from straying too far.  But not is not the time for either, so her body keeps pulling apart.  
  
"We all knew about him," she starts. Sherlock's wide eyes urge her on as he absently pushes a sleeve up, showing the ink. "We're not supposed to gossip, but that's how it is. He was a suspect in the murder of a young black man; everyone knew he did it, but he wasn't convicted."  
  
"Oh," Sherlock says. "How dull. You killed him out of vengeance."  
  
"No," she says, pulling her hair down and placing the tie in the right hand drawer of the cabinet.  
  
"Well, don't keep me waiting."  
  
She gives him a look and he goes quiet, rocking onto the backs of his heels. She peels off her sweater, leaving her elbows and wrists bare, folding it over the back of the living room chair.  
  
"I was thinking about it. How we all got there in that room, a murderer on the table when that boy is in a poor man's grave with no one to -- I was there on my shift, getting paid to save his life and then -- "  
  
"Your hand slipped, cutting where you shouldn't have."  
  
She shakes her head. "Let me finish," she bites. She takes a seat and he sits next to her, the TV with its noontime soap giving white noise like always.  
  
"The surgery went fine, we all thought it. It was only after we found out."  
  
"It was an accident, then."  
  
She looks in his eyes. "I don't know. I don't know."  
  
They sit there, in silence, Joan content to wait him out. At last, her bones sink into the cushion.  
  
"How did you know?" she asks.  
  
"Whenever you come back home from the hospital, you put your hand there."  
  
She nods. "Home, huh?"  
  
"It is quite the place, isn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," she says, "yeah."  
  
They watch the rest of the TV show, Sherlock predicting how the episode will end -- there are only so many plots to choose from, it's just a matter of figuring out which ones -- and somewhere between the credits and the previews, he places a mug of tea in her hand.  
  
"The calming sleepy stuff you like," he states, fingers holding the rim, steam gathering beneath his palm. She takes the mug in both hands.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
He smiles, small and delicate. "Of course, Miss Watson."


End file.
